


Non Omnis Moriar

by pyrokinetic loser (commonghost)



Category: Keeper of the Lost Cities Series - Shannon Messenger
Genre: Death, Food, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Queerphobia, Suicidal Thoughts, but i still wanted to put something up lol, but its still there so if you dont like it dont read, fintante def isnt the focus, ik its basically trash, it isnt non-con but theres still an iffy scene in there, its my oc dw, its only there for one scene, listen i wrote this at midnight, maybe you'll like it or something idk, nothing happens cause fintan gets his shit together but its...not fun, one scene with emery, only there for a little bit but its there, so im not tagging them, there are mentions of sophie and emery but its like
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:21:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28312998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/commonghost/pseuds/pyrokinetic%20loser
Summary: Have a drabble I wrote late last night that somehow turned into 3k words haha. Anyways I'm just gonna post what I put on tumblr onto here bc I'm lazy & tired so yeah have fun. It's half decent but it's really nothing special. Not my best work but definitely not my worst. Enjoy, I guess?Trigger warnings: swearing, suicidal thoughts (only there for a little bit, but it’s there), death mentions, implied death, implied violence, mentions of blood & violence, very mild sexual content (nothing actually happens, though warning: it’s...not fun), food, implied abuse, queerphobia
Relationships: Councillor Bronte (Keeper of the Lost Cities) & Original Character(s), Councillor Bronte/Fintan Pyren
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	Non Omnis Moriar

**Author's Note:**

> oh boy oh boy oh boy have a drabble that turned into this lol. anyway this isnt my best stuff but its decent (not great, but decent) so i thought "might as well post it"
> 
> headcanons to know: half-human bronte. i think that's it.

Bronte doesn’t remember much of the day he sealed his future away, young and reckless and too naive. _Always_ too naive. All he remembers is the throbbing headache and the fear and how he knew he had a single choice to make: work or die.

Looking back, Bronte isn’t sure he picked the right one.

Because the proof of everblaze sits on the table in front of him. Collected by a child who had decided to risk everything just to help _humans_.

Bronte feels something twist in his gut.

_He should’ve known. He of all people should’ve believed the child who had decided that enough was enough. Because he knew Fintan was a monster. He’d **always** known._

Bronte wants to kick himself. But Sophie Foster still broke too many laws to be forgiven, and he wouldn’t let an opportunity to stop a possibly dangerous person slip away.

_He knows it’s unfair, he knows and he hates it. But Sophie Foster was made by the Black Swan. She was a project who had secrets hidden in her mind, and no one else had seemed to realize what a danger that could be. So Bronte calls for the tribunal, anyway. He knows he won’t win, but he still has to try. He can’t risk it._

______

Bronte remembers staring into teal eyes, asking why this child would ever want to help _him_. He knew how she looked at him with disdain and pity. And disgust.

 _A freak like you isn’t supposed to exist,_ she told him, _and yet here we are. Why can a human deal in elven matters, when a royal cannot?_

He wants to punch her in the face. Scream at her that he doesn’t want to be here. That it’s all _Fintan’s_ fault he’s _here_ and how Bronte didn’t decide to have green eyes and a mind that wouldn’t shatter and a broken ability, nor did he decide to be an impossible creature, a freak, something that wasn’t supposed to exist.

But Azura Rivleam was never one to cower in the face of the impossible. She wasn’t one to cower before the elven king, either. And no matter what her father said, she’d never be his perfect prince. Because Azura had always known. And it was easy for her to slip away, changing her own physical form in some kind of twisted, backwards transformation as she looks Fintan in the eye and says _what more could you ask for?_

Bronte remembers teal meeting fire - not Fintan’s, surprisingly - and he remembers seeing her sad smile when she had told him it wouldn’t always be safe to stay. She could hide and run, Bronte knew that much. Her ability was unmatched, and she outclassed everyone in the room by virtue of it. She could look like a completely different person in a matter of seconds. It was safer to run. Fintan would never allow her to stay.

It didn’t make it hurt any less when she left, a couple decades later, still young and kind. But not naive. Not anymore. He watches the second sister he’s ever known vanish into the night, and she doesn’t look back. Not once.

_They always end up leaving. They always do. And you can’t blame them for it, either._

______

Saelyhn is his first sister, a year before Azura. Calm and patient, but strong. Determined. Bronte sees the resolve in her eyes. And from the first time he meets her, 15 and wide-eyed, he knows he’ll never be as brave as her.

Her wanderling has been growing for more than 4,000 years now. Her body still feels heavy in his arms if he thinks about it too much. The feel of the sword in his hand, the silence of a blade in an empty field.

And her eyes still as calm and kind as that first meeting. Even when Bronte’s fill with tears and he tells her that he’s _sorry_ , that he doesn’t know why _he’s_ making him do this and she tells him that it’s okay. That at least she knows he won’t make it painful and that at least it’s not fire.

He doesn’t sleep well for a long time after that. He doesn’t sleep well again at all until he gives in to the sedatives.

He finds that he doesn’t want to wake up anymore.

Adran shakes him out of it, reminding him that there were people who cared, that he couldn’t let this break him. Adran tells him that no matter what happens, he’s there for him, and that he wouldn’t let Bronte drown. Bronte clings to him and cries.

______

Bronte wants to tell Fintan he can go die. That he can go and shove his plans for the future up his own ass and that Bronte would smile if he kicked the bucket. But Bronte doesn’t know if he can bring himself to. Not yet, at least.

So all Bronte does is repeat the same prayer he’d learned since he was a child, freshly spilled blood still on his clothes. He remembers when he was small and weak, green eyes staring at the drumming on the earth as the dead get burned, as his mother pulls him close and tells him not to play with fire, that it would burn if he got too close.

He stays awake seven days, just like he used to. They used to take turns, before, but now it’s only him. With a dead language on his tongue and a heavy heart in his chest, he completes the cycle. He doesn’t understand why, it’s not like he believes it will do anything.

_7 days for the dead to find their resting place. The 8th for the rest of the living, where everyone comes together for a feast and when we can finally close our eyes again. The 9th for a new beginning. The rise of a new dawn._

_“Be still, child of thunder,” his mother chides when he doesn’t stop squirming, desperately wanting rest, “have respect for the dead. They will guide you when you need them.”_

So Bronte prays to a God he doesn’t believe in, because maybe he’ll always be a monster, maybe he’ll never be normal or kind, but he can still pray for the friends and enemies and strangers he’s lost.

Bronte decides not to forget any of them. He memorizes their names and writes all fifteen down in a journal anyway and stuffs it in the hidden drawer in his desk. He realizes with a sinking feeling that this won’t be the last time he uses the journal.

He quietly pulls out the protection charms his mother gave him. The beads and strings scream at him to put them back, that they’re precious and all he has left of her. Of _himself_. Gold and white and red, carved into necklaces and bracelets and earrings and strung together like art. Bronte remembers his mother making them by hand, the heat of the desert sun beating on the both of them. A bead of sweat trickling down her face as she concentrated.

Bronte holds the jewelry to his chest for a moment and the world goes still. And then he steels his nerves and gets out of the house. It’s too cramped, too dark. He needs life and he needs a home again.

So he goes to Adran. He’s still just as much of a teacher as he’s always been, still always planning his lessons and his office still messy from the amount of scrolls dotted along the floor.

His former mentor takes one look at Bronte and pulls out the strongest bottle he has. And Bronte tells him he’s killed a man again. And that this time it’s his fault, not Fintan’s. That Bronte ran the risk calculations, and that Bronte was the one who had decided another man had to die.

Adran holds him as he sobs, rubbing circles into his back as Bronte cries silently.

The tears don’t stop for a long time. But when they do, Bronte knows that he won’t allow this to happen again. He won’t.

Green eyes meet brown, and Bronte knows Adran is the only person who will ever understand.

 _Never again,_ they agree. But it’s already too late.

Bronte gives Adran one of the bracelets. It’s the least he could do, at this point. And still, Bronte knows that Adran wasn’t expecting it. That Adran wasn’t expecting anything in return for his teaching and guidance and never-ending patience.

Bronte almost wants to cry again.

He doesn’t.

______

He gives the second of the bracelets to Fintan the day he becomes a councillor.

He’s finding it hard to remind himself that he has to hate Fintan. That Fintan ruined Azura and Saelyhn and made Adran turn away and that there’s nothing that can be done to redeem him.

Kind, warm eyes stare back at him when he places the charm in Fintan’s hand. Bronte decides to hate himself, instead.

Because Fintan is a monster, sure. Cruel and malicious, mal-intent behind every smile and word. But Bronte’s even less than him - half human and broken and a _freak_.

He spends hours at the mirror later that same day. Green eyes stare back at him, emerald and parakeet and shamrock.

Bronte isn’t sure who he hates more. Himself or his mother.

 _Curse you for bringing me into this world,_ he thinks, _why would you decide to give a chance to a creature like me?_

He wishes he had died in the desert at her side, aching for water and clawing his way to the city. Disgraced and hated and banished because she didn’t deny herself the love she deserved.

Bronte decides to curse his father, instead. A face he’d never seen and that he hoped he’d never meet. Because his father was the one who had abandoned them, his father was the reason his mother had died in discomfort and misery.

Though, Bronte does guess that people don’t care much for whores. He wonders if his father even knows he exists.

______

Bronte meets Lord Ardeth once.

 _Once was enough_ , he thinks, Adran treating his wounds.

Yes. Once was enough.

______

Bronte isn’t able to keep his promise. It’s only his fifth year as a councillor, and he already failed.

He tries to tell himself that it wasn’t his fault, it was circumstance and the prisoner was resistant to sedatives. And too dangerous to be left conscious and that the Council simply didn’t have the resources to keep an eye on him and that there was _no other choice and **no one else could do it and**_

He repeats his mother’s prayer for the first time in a while as he prepares for a week without rest. At least this way the nightmares would keep at bay. Saelyhn and Azura and Adran and Fintan still appeared every now and then, pleading and kind and taunting.

But Bronte doesn’t say anything about the nightmares as Fintan walks into his tower and asks him what he’s doing. And then Bronte needs to reveal another part of himself again. The way Fintan looks at him makes him feel dirty, as if what he was doing wasn’t right, as if it wasn’t allowed.

Bronte stops himself from completing the first prayer. He’s on the Council, now. He doesn’t have time for this anymore.

He wants to throw up when Fintan kisses him that night. But he’s too tired to say anything anymore. He just wants some rest, and Fintan’s being surprisingly nice. He hopes it’s over soon. He could tell Fintan to stop, Bronte knows he’d listen. But he was getting tired of the disappointment in Fintan’s eyes.

Bronte wants to cry again. This time, he almost does. But Fintan’s still there, lips pressed against Bronte’s, his body all too close, and Bronte knows he can’t afford to be weak. Not now. Not in front of _him_. 

Because Bronte was scared. He’d never admit it, no, but he was scared and _terrified_ because the single constant in Bronte’s life had always been Fintan. And Bronte didn’t know how to escape. He could distantly feel himself shaking.

_His mother’s last words echo through his head. “Run, child of thunder, because once you’ve set the first spark there is nothing more that can be done for you.”_

He sobs. Fintan freezes, his fingers lingering over the last button on Bronte’s shirt. Fintan pulls away. And then reaches back again and starts redoing all the buttons as Bronte shakily sits up, still crying.

“You should’ve told me you didn’t want to.” Fintan’s words had come out barely louder than a whisper.

Bronte looks up. But what he sees in Fintan’s face is _far_ worse than disappointment or dissatisfaction.

Warm hands cup Bronte’s face as a single _I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I shouldn’t have stopped you._ escapes Fintan’s lips.

Bronte suddenly realizes he’s never seen Fintan cry before.

He silently gets off the bed and restarts the prayer. Fintan doesn’t stop him, this time. All he does is close the door behind him as he leaves.

______

Bronte stares at the broken husk of a man Fintan has become after the moonlark and Alden completed the break.

He doesn’t find it within himself to take his bracelet back.

______

Bronte remembers Adran’s leaving like it was yesterday. Bronte couldn’t blame him - Adran was as broken and human as Bronte was, and it was too late for him to hide it.

Adran had hugged him tightly, told Bronte that he had fought as hard as he could against the rest of the Council, and that Bronte would always be the son he’d never had and that he was sorry he had to leave, but that it wasn’t safe for him anymore. It hadn’t been safe for a long time.

Bronte watches the last piece of humanity he was tied to slip into a beam of light.

He doesn’t cry, this time. But he feels the hole in his center start to grow a little bigger. He could feel the void’s pull just a little more than usual. 

Fintan puts a firm hand on his shoulder. 

Bronte flinches.

______

Bronte screams, desperately trying to get the hands off his neck.

Fintan isn’t seeing him. Bronte knows that. But i _t hurts and **oh god he was going to die here, wasn’t he?**_

______

Bronte remembers a conversation he had with Saelyhn an eternity ago. Her eyes had been glassy as she held out the necklace she wore for Bronte to see.

A single seed was placed inside a jar. It was the last gift Saelyhn had ever received from her baby sister before her throat had been slit and she had died, cold and alone, in a deserted alleyway. All for a few gold coins.

Bronte desperately tries not to think about how if his life had gone down a slightly different path, he might’ve been her killer.

Saelyhn had looked at Bronte, then, and he knew that she was seeing right through him.

“I won’t let anyone hurt you.” She’d told him. “I promise.”

______

Bronte leaves offerings at her wanderling. It’s usually food that can be consumed by nearby animals, which is unfortunately meat. Bronte doesn’t mind, though. He cared about animals, of course, but he didn’t think it was a big deal if he dropped by in the Forbidden Cities to get some street food from time to time.

It was pig intestines, this time. Bronte knew it was one of Saelyhn’s favourite treats (He doesn’t understand why, to be completely honest, but he’s not one to judge.) He leaves it at the base of her tree, in a small stone shrine he had made himself. Her sword still rested against the shrine and the dark, rich bark of the wanderling.

Bronte found himself running his fingers along the inscription carved into the hilt.

_Ad astra per aspera._

Bronte smiles. She’d always loved those kinds of tacky phrases.

______

Bronte wishes he could have his sisters back. That Saelyhn would always be there to help him, that Azura would teach him how to properly do his hair.

He learns it on his own. If anyone asks, it’s to keep it out of his face while he’s working. But he’s tired of being the man everyone expects him to be. He thinks of Azura’s courage, how she stared her father in the eyes, telling him _If I cannot be **Queen** , then I will not rule._

It’s not that Bronte’s like Azura. He’s fine with being a man, but he knows that there’s something else there, too. He’s not a girl, _absolutely_ not, but...maybe there was something _else_ there. There _had_ to be.

Bronte finds it pleasing how Emery falters when he sees him. His happiness vanishes when something else replaces the calm look in Emery’s eyes.

He’d seen it all too many times before. But it was usually directed at his eyes, or his heavy accent _(He’d eventually learned how to fix it. It was surprisingly easy to fake the posh noble one.)_ Never how his _hair_ was done. But it had always been the same gaze. The one that told him the sender knew exactly who and _what_ he was, and that he would never be welcome among them.

Bronte decides to keep his hair short and unstyled from then on. He shoves the beads and colorful, swirling hair ties into a box and hides it inside a thick crate, next to his mother’s jewelry and the photos of him and the rest of his old friends.

Emery doesn’t look at him weird anymore after he stops taking care of his hair. Or, at least, he doesn’t stare in any noticeable way. Bronte knows it takes more than that to make an elf forget about something so _other_.

______

Bronte can’t help but care for Miss Foster. Maybe it’s because he knows what it’s like to be the odd one out, maybe because he understands the frustration of being broken.

But it’s still hard to look at kind, brown eyes and not think of Adran. It’s hard to look at a set jaw and a determined aura and not think of Saelyhn. And it’s hard to look at light, blonde hair, falling in slight waves that couldn’t be considered curls, and at the spark of mischief in those eyes and not see Azura.

Bronte calls Adran for the first time in a thousand years and catches him up to speed. He hasn’t a doubt in his mind that no one else in the world will hear the words said over the line. He still doesn’t know what to think when Adran laughs and tells him

“You care about her because she reminds you of _you_ , Bronte. And you do know that’s okay, right?”

**Author's Note:**

> uhhh tell me what you think? i guess? idk i hope you liked it. this is my 1 AM brain working here so yeah.


End file.
